Princess of the Tomb
by planet p
Summary: AU, stranded on the planet whose address had been locked out of the Destiny’s systems, Andrea makes an astonishing revelation.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own SGU, I don't own the characters.**

Andrea Palmer can't seem to place this paranoia, but nor can she seem to stem it; it is insatiable in its appetite, it seems. When it takes a liking to Dr. Rush, she knows it must be stopped, but, as though it is now in control of her mind, she thinks, _Nothing can stop me!_

That is the first time she truly gets the chills.

The paranoia comes to its crescendo when she is chosen to accompany an 'away' team to an alien planet to search for lime to resurrect the failing life support systems and restore breathable air to the ship's interior.

_Dr. Rush_, it tells her, _cares nothing for the _Destiny_'s human passengers, he cares only for the ship, itself. If the people onboard are to be saved, it will not be by his doing_.

_You know what you must do_, it tells her. And she can only listen.

_He does not care_, she repeats, _he cares only for the ship_. She repeats it over and over, until, suddenly, it seems it _must_ be true; it seems it cannot be anything but true.

_It must be me_, she thinks, _I must save the people myself_.

It is her idea to dial the locked out addresses, it is her idea to choose the second 'forbidden' planet; she steps through the Gate without hesitation, though, a small part of her knows – just _knows_ – there should be something, some hesitation: there is none.

On stepping through the Gate, she discovers that the kino was wrong. What the kino had relayed back to them was all wrong; they stand amidst a vast, incalculably high cavern.

It is dark now that the Gate has closed off – Franklin didn't follow, she notes, but doesn't really, at all – but she isn't afraid, she isn't scared.

Her steps are bold, knowing. Her voice is an echo of those steps. She speaks, in her mind, in English, but the words come out… differently.

The cavern is alight, suddenly; lit by glowing orbs. They seem to dart about, at first, as though scouting out the area, and then settle somewhere in the periphery. She watches as one of the orbs breaks apart, becoming two with seemingly fluid ease, and the new, daughter orb flies to her. The same has happened with the other light-emitting orbs, she sees.

In their glow, she gets a look at Curtis's face: he isn't talking; his face is almost chalky.

"There's no need to worry," she tells him, in English this time, "we're in a tomb. We won't be attacked here; this is a sacred space."

Curtis's head turns slowly – she wonders if it is cold, she can't feel that it is, but it would explain the whiteness of his face – _How do you know that?_ she thinks he asks, but he really asks, "Whose tomb?"

The question stumps her, as though the answer to that is too obvious to ever have been put into question, and she hears herself say, "Mine."

* * *

The revelation comes to her quickly, in a flutter so frantic it can only be described as a rush; she thinks of the_ Destiny's_ FTL drive, of the colours warping as they race by.

She wonders, momentarily, how there can be colour at all if colour comes from light, and FTL, itself, means _faster than light_. But they are not on the ship anymore, and she is a princess, or, at least, she was a princess.

This was once a Furling colony, she knows. Where the knowledge _comes_ from, she doesn't know, but she knows it has been calling to her, for a long time now.

She remembers being a child; she remembers the fascination with caves, with mines or underground rail lines: this is a cave, a vast artificially-formed underground cave.

_No, not a princess_, some part of her corrects, _a diplomat_. If this planet is California, then she is Chloe, the Senator's daughter.

And this is her tomb.

_I have come home_, she thinks.

Curtis is staring at her, and, at first, she doesn't know why. And then she sees her hands, covered in a strange winding tattoo that must encompass the length of her body.

_Do not be afraid_, her mind tells her, _it is only your utilisation companion. It will assist you to work the technology; like an Earth computer._

"I'm alright," she tells Curtis, "it's alright."

He says nothing.

Nothing is alright; nothing, at all.

**A speculative piece: Because what's with those Furling dudes, and when are we ever going to find out about them? Thanks for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

These beings were different, she thinks; _I am different now_. She looks upon the centrepiece of her tomb… with _strangeness_.

About her 'grave' are scattered various statues; these are her guards in the afterlife, she knows. They are taller than her; their heads reaching higher than any human's usually would, with something about their legs that reminds her of… a faun, or a lycan of _Underworld_-esque glamour.

She wonders if their appearance reflects that of all Furlings, but- She can't remember.

_Strange_, she thinks. _This, I can't remember._

Curtis is beside her, still; as silent as her long ago grave.

She tries to see it through his eyes, to take it all in through _his_ eyes: the cavern, its vastness; the guards, the grave, the engravings which she knows must tell her name, the dates that she lived.

She _can't_; she can't even see it through her _own_ eyes! Her vision is… befuddled, confused by the thoughts racing in and out of her mind's eye.

She listens to her breathing; regulates it.

Out of the corner of one eye, she sees Curtis move forward as though he hadn't lifted his feet, at all, as though he'd simply _glided_ forward. Which is, of course, ridiculous! She'd seen him move his feet!

_It is this place_, she thinks, _he… _understands_, in a way. He is trying to be… respectful, careful; graceful._

_The past may be viewed upon, but, outside of the pool of our gathered memories, like many strings, reaching from there to here, here to there, from now to… what lies ahead, we do not touch it, it remains cold, unmoved; forever slumbering._

_He understands._

She watches him crouch down to the circle of engravings before him, at his feet, and slide his fingers over them, just _gently_. She watches, as his fingertips leave them, they begin to glow.

He doesn't move; he's either not scared, or he's too scared to move.

The glow of them unsticks, then, from the engravings, and lifts into the air; weaving, weaving. They weave in a tight circle, wheeling, forming a flitting, darting column. And then-

The figure is of a woman – _A _human_ woman? Is that_ me_?_ – with skin that shimmers and glows. The irises of the woman's eyes are made of liquid gold, it seems, to her. The tattoos have retreated, they now only show against the woman's right hand. She thinks, fleetingly, of a hand device.

The woman bends, then, she's crouching down on her haunches, her finger hooks under Curtis's chin; she stares into his eyes.

Andrea feels a cold chill, as though she'd been doused in the icy waters of a frozen lake, pushed, head first, into the deathly still, unbreathing, suffocating mass.

As the woman stands, again, so does Curtis. He can't break his gaze for hers.

Andrea feels… sick. She leaps forward. It's her tomb, right? It's hers, so she can treat it how she _likes_!

She closes her hand over Curtis arm, to pull him away from the glowing woman, toward herself.

The woman doesn't look at her; her eyes are for Curtis. Somehow, Andrea tries not to let this be offensive. She wouldn't want to be looked at by that… it!

She gives a sharp yank on Curtis's arm, he spins around to face her; the woman's finger slips from under his chin, she dissolves, behind him, into a shower of bright, golden waves.

"What are you doing?" Andrea demands. She can _actually_ watch Curtis's eyes clearing, she can actually _watch_ as he sees her, now.

"I- She- Is that what she actually looked like, for real?" His words are stammered, as though some part of him is still in thrall to her shimmering glamour.

He hadn't said, _You_, she notes. _Is that what you actually looked like, for real?_ "What are you doing?" she repeats, though, this time, it is in a shout.

The sound reverberates, coming back to them.

She feels like they're standing on a stage; like they're waiting. Nobody's waiting – _yet_. Her mind falters. For a moment, it boggles. Then, mercifully, it clears.

_Not a tomb_, she thinks – _knowing_ it, somehow – a place of gathering, a place for negotiation, a… parliament; a senate.

_I was the welcoming committee_, she thinks, and, somehow, she feels… _incensed_: _All I was was… some pathetic chic who's very great _pleasure_ it was to greet everyone at the door! Roll out the _Yes, sir! What can I possibly do for you, sir?_ wagon, with a pretty face!_

She grips Curtis's arms tightly and shakes. "What's _wrong_ with you?"

"Were you a… doctor?" he asks, still out of it. "Like, a guarantor of the peace, or civility?"

_This time_, she fumes, _this time – there's a 'you'!_ Her mind does a double take. _A… what?_

"You were a doctor, right? That's… that's like a hand device? You used to heal people, make them… right, again? It gave you… status, credence. You were an angel."

She trips over her thoughts, tumbling end over end for a moment. _An angel?_ Distantly, she thinks, _Curtis thinks I'm an angel. Hang on, no! He thinks I _was_ an angel!_

_If this was ever even _me, a part of her adds.

The other part, the certain part, doesn't correct.

_What now?_ she thinks. "I… Maybe! I don't," she forces herself to say, "remember!"

Curtis stares at her, into _her_ eyes. "It's like… Destiny, isn't it?"

A sigh escapes her. _Destiny?_ She lets her shoulders go; they drop. "I don't know," she says. She's scared; she really _doesn't_ know.

* * *

**"…???" Ahem, yes, where is this going? I ask myself the same thing.**


End file.
